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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24733426">Every Rose has its Thorns</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartfemme/pseuds/heartfemme'>heartfemme</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Twilight (Movies), Twilight Series - All Media Types, Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Pre-Twilight, Twilight Renaissance, and I love revenge and pretty women showing that they WILL do what's necessary, and also she did NOT get her accolades, and rosalie is lit my fave vamp only bc she shouldve been black, this is me getting back to writing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 03:01:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,709</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24733426</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartfemme/pseuds/heartfemme</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>All her life, Rosalie has thought that her beauty would keep her safe from the horror that other women have faced, but when the man she thought would keep her safe turns out to be the worst of them all, she decides that maybe it’s time she showed him her beauty has a little bite to it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Saturday</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Heyyo! This is my first time writing for the Twilight fandom so um bear with me!Also I have taken the initiative to make Rosalie black bc fuck canon, this is gonna be 8 parts and I'd really appreciate (if anyone had the time) a beta reader!! If you're interested please message me at heartmirrors on tumblr &lt;3 Also if you like it please feel free to give kudos, leave a comment or send a friendly tumblr message!! Thank you, and I hope y'all enjoy!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As Rosalie lays there, in her blood and shame, listening to the man she’d trusted walk away with his friends, all of them sure she won’t make it through the night, she wonders: what did she do to end up in such a situation? Maybe her vanity was her downfall, the belief that simply being beautiful enough would protect her from the horrors she’d seen other women-those society had deemed less desirable- go through. As she lay there, she chided herself for her naivety. Of course beauty wasn’t the key to protection, to a safe life in a world where men took what they when they wanted. Beauty didn’t give you agency, autonomy, the freedom to speak against your husband when he made you uncomfortable. Beauty just made you a bigger prize, the shiniest car in the lot, and meant you could take your pick. Rosalie wished she’d learned this lesson earlier, but beauty had been her comfort, something she’d been so effortlessly good at-praised for- that it simply never occurred to her that there was little besides what was on the surface that beauty accounted for. What she’d seen as respect and adoration from men was nothing more than a competition between them to see who could break the surface of Rosalie’s icy heart. Maybe it was this iciness that had put her where she was now, men driven so wild by their inability to capture her heart that they felt they had to take it by force. She gives a weak chuckle then. Even on the brink of death, in such a humiliating position, vanity still reared its head; her final worldly comfort.</p><p>***</p><p>From the time she was born Rosalie had been considered beautiful. From the moment she opened her eyes, nurses were cooing over her, marvelling at the big brown eyes set into such a cherubic face. As she’d grown older, her skin had set into a beautiful brown colour, her hair growing in thick black coils, something her mother would marvel over as she brushed her hair every morning, looking over Rosalie’s shoulder as she did. Mornings always went like this, her mother brushing her hair out, watching the thick black curls spring as they were pulled and twisted into two braids going down Rosalie’s back, all the while praising her.</p><p> </p><p>‘Look at you, my pretty darling, the healthiest head of hair in Rochester’. It was no wonder that by the time Rosalie was ten, she’d already become a little self-centred. Between her mother’s constant praise of her hair, to the way the other girls would marvel over her smooth brown skin, free from the blemishes that other girls were afflicted with. By the time she was twelve Rosalie was maybe the vainest girl on their side of the city. Her mother had already had her two younger brothers by then, and as such had no time to lavish praises on Rosalie, but Rosalie didn’t need her to do that anymore. Every morning she’d look in the mirror, as she sectioned and detangled her hair, making sure she could run a comb through it before braiding it up. She’d take in her appearance, the deep brown eyes set into an expanse of smooth skin, the full lips she’d inherited from her mother. She’d turn, and check her profile, admire the slope of her nose (straight as her father’s), and the way her jaw seemed just right. By fourteen she’d decided that the inherited beauty wasn’t enough, that she had to make sure she acted as beautiful as she felt. She always had the best clothes, sweet talked from a father who couldn’t say no to his dear baby girl. She surrounded herself with the prettiest girls - girls with the most beautiful smiles, the most vibrant eyes. Girls who could send boys into fits of stammering and blushing, and other girls into fields of envy. But she always made sure she was the most beautiful of all, the one who was hardest to please. Of course she would be; why should she, Rosalie Hale, settle for a bunch of flowers picked hastily on a morning stroll, not even tied up with ribbons the way other girls did? As she’d grown, her pride in her looks, and unwillingness to settle had led up to her having her sights set on one man: Royce King II. He was a smooth talker, all slicked back hair and crisp suits, saying and doing the right things; loved by all, from adoring girls hoping for even a glance from him, to their parents. Of course her sights were set on him, the most talked about man for the most talked about girl. In Rosalie’s mind, they made a perfect match, never mind that she knew next to nothing about him. So that day, when her mother sent her to the bank to deliver her father’s forgotten lunch, Rosalie made sure to saunter past him, throwing him a flirty look (but not too flirty, she couldn’t come off as one of the simpering girls that tripped over their feet for his attention) as she introduced herself, asking oh so coyly where she might find her father’s office to deliver his lunch. She felt his eyes on her as she walked away, not sparing him a glance to let him know that even he couldn’t just kiss her hand and win a smile. After all, her mom had always told her that the key to truly holding men’s affection was to never make yourself too available: men loved the chase.</p><p>Rosalie had begun to doubt the truth of her mother’s words, when one day, then two, then three went by with no word from Royce, no indication that he even thought about her. Then on the morning of the fourth day, her doorbell rang, and who would be standing there other than Royce, in his hands a bouquet of fresh picked roses, all red, tied with a red ribbon. He’d smiled that smooth smile, and much to her surprise her heart had skipped a beat. The flowers began to show up every day, roses at first, then violets when he’d learnt they were her favourite. After the flowers, an invitation to a date, which Rosalie had accepted - after keeping him waiting of course. After three dates, a proposal; a public affair at a dinner party all their friends and family had been attending, exactly what Rosalie had thought to have been the perfect show of love: loud, boastful, something that tinged all the other girls green with envy.</p><p>***</p><p>As she lay here now, in the flickering light of the streetlamp, she wished she hadn’t been so foolish, so easily carried away by grand gestures. She wished she’d paid more attention to the way his eyes wandered when other girls were around, the way he spoke of her, like she was a trophy to be hung on his wall. She wished she’d seen his grand gestures for what they were: empty promises meant to fool her into thinking he loved her, when really he loved the idea of being the Man Who Won Rosalie Hale. She almost wants to chuckle, all that pride and for what? To end up lying on the side of the street at the age of 17, life cut short at the whim of a violent man and his friends. Rage welled up inside of her, replaced by fear as she heard footsteps, replaced by shame as she realised that more than anything, right now, she didn’t want anyone to see her like this. Not in a town like this, where rumours spread fast. It would ruin her family.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello? Miss Hale?”</p><p> </p><p>She instantly wants to die, right then on the spot. She recognises the voice, the handsome doctor who moved into town a few months ago. Carlisle, if she remembers correctly. Her shame increases tenfold, it’s a disgrace for anyone to see her like this, but especially so for this man, with his golden eyes and impossibly smooth skin, to witness her in such a state.</p><p> </p><p>“Miss Hale,” he says again, kneeling down beside her.</p><p>“Go…” she rasps, trying to shoo him. His hands are cold, which doesn’t make sense; it <em>is</em> the middle of spring after all.</p><p>“Miss Hale, I’m going to help you okay. I’m here to help,” he prods around moving the hair out of the way of her neck.</p><p>She can barely get the words out to tell him to go away, when she feels a sharp pain in her neck.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Did he just bite her?</em>
</p><p>Trust a man as handsome as him to be a complete degenerate, biting half dead girls in the middle of the street.</p><p>Rage begins to build in her again, but just as quickly as it, begins, it subsides, replaced by a wave of searing pain, like her bones are being shattered all at once. She wants to scream, but he clamps a hand over her mouth, lifting her up and taking her away. Before she knows it she’s in a house, she doesn’t know where. The pain is never-ending, coming in waves and waves and waves, each more debilitating than the last.</p><p>“Carlisle what are you doing,” she hears someone ask. She assumes it’s the boy he’s always with. The one she’s seen in passing on the rare occasion he’s out.</p><p>“I couldn’t leave her there…” Carlisle’s voice fades, Rosalie unable to concentrate as the pain spreads to her chest. If Rosalie felt like her bones were being broken, it feels like her heart is being squeezed, and just when she feels like it can’t be squeezed anymore, the pressure increases. She wants to claw her way out of her body to escape this pain. She wants to die, disappear, just evaporate into thin air. Anything to escape the confines of this body, set alight over and over again, each fire burning fiercer than the last. She wants to scream, but even that is painstaking, her throat tightening whenever she tries.  She doesn’t know how long the pain lasts, all she knows is that it’s there until it’s not, and she doesn’t have time to revel in it, blacking out as soon as it’s over. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Sunday</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Rosalie wakes up in a new place, hoping everything that happened was just some sick vivid dream. If only life was that simple.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Rosalie wakes with a start, hoping that it was all a dream, and last night never happened, but alas, that isn’t to be. She’s inside a darkened room, but she finds that she can actually see really well without having to squint her eyes.  In fact, she can see as well as she does during the day. The room isn’t hers, and that’s what scares her the most. The décor is all wrong, bland and boring, like the room is not meant to be lived in, just a room for a room’s sake. None of the girly extravagance she was used to in hers, the portrait opposite her bed, the vanity occupying a corner next to the window. No dress hanging on a stand, picked out the night before while she made her plans for the next day. She throws her legs over the bed, surprised to find that she isn’t in pain the way she thought she’d be. Then that surprise turns to fear, there had to be pain, if what happened last night truly did happen. She couldn’t have gone through an ordeal like that and come out unscathed. Or maybe she’s been in a coma, asleep for so long that the damage to her body healed itself over time.</p><p> </p><p>Yes, she decides, a coma. Just as she’s had this thought, she automatically panics. If she’s been in a coma she’s missed her wedding, and then the panic is replaced by anger. How could she even <em>think</em> of marrying that pig after what he did, because if she was in a coma, he put her there. <em>He </em>was responsible. She spots a bowl and hoping it has water, takes a step towards it, catapulting her body forwards. She’s so unsteady she almost knocks the thing over. Rosalie is dazed. She only took one step; or at least she doesn’t remember taking the others. She peers into the water bowl, surprised to find herself still her. Well mostly. She runs her hand through her hair, fingers raking smoothly through her black curls. Was someone brushing her hair while she slept? There would definitely be more knots in there. Her skin is still the smooth brown it was, in fact it was even smoother than she last remembered. Talk about beauty sleep.</p><p> </p><p>Her eyes however - they’re not hers. Where she should be staring into dark pools, she was instead looking at two circles glowing red. She almost knocks the bowl over. What was that looking back? A demon? Something from a bedtime story meant to scare her into saying her prayers and eating her greens? Rosalie’s no kid, so she looks again, and sure enough, it’s still there. Red eyes, perfectly smooth skin, mimicking her every action perfectly. She pulls a face, sticking her tongue out at it. And that’s when she notices the elongated canines. She immediately clamps her hand over her mouth, Other Rosalie doing the same. Her hands are cold, terribly so. Could they not get her a blanket while she lay ill? Some caretakers they were.</p><p> </p><p>Once she’s tired of examining the peculiar reflection, she decides to explore, deciding that she’ll get more answers if she finds someone to talk to instead of pondering by herself, tearing her mind to shreds in the process. She steps towards the door, finding she’s arrived quicker than she thought yet again, and when she attempts to open it, the door comes clean off its hinges. She rolls her eyes at the poor quality of the door, her skin crawling at the fact that her parents have allowed her to stay in such deplorable conditions. Drab decorations, no heating, and questionable structures. She pauses then. Do her parents even know she’s here? Or did she last see them that bad night? She shakes her head, listening for any signs of life. She feels an itch beginning to build in her throat, and adds that to her list of grievances. Not only is this the most depressing building she’s ever been in, but it has dust on top of that. Just her luck. Hearing voices from what she presumes is downstairs, she follows them, out of the room, and down the hall, the voices getting clearer and clearer, until she’s standing at the top of the staircase, and they are crystal clear. She sees no people but she hears clearly the voice of the doctor, and who she can only presume is his son, locked in an argument. She almost calls out when she hears her name.</p><p>“So I suppose you want her to be my mate? That’s why you picked up the most talked about girl in Rochester, engaged to the most eligible bachelor? That won’t make waves at all Carlisle.”</p><p>“Edward, just consider it. Would it be so bad?” the doctor asks, ignoring the sarcasm dripping from his son’s voice.</p><p>“Sorry Carlisle, but in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly falling over my feet to be with her.”</p><p> </p><p>This statement sends anger coursing through Rosalie. Just who does he think he is?</p><p>Before they can continue their argument, she steps down the stairs, into what she believes is the kitchen.</p><p> </p><p>“Well you’re no prize yourself,” she retorts.</p><p> </p><p>Edward raises an eyebrow, the corner of his lips tilted up in amusement.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah Miss Hale, you’re awake,” Carlisle speaks, gesturing for her to sit down.</p><p> </p><p>The only seat in the kitchen is too close to his son for her liking, so she shakes her head, straightening up.</p><p> </p><p>“I’d rather not.”</p><p> </p><p>“She doesn’t want to sit near me, I think because I’m not entranced by her beauty,” Edward almost snickers.</p><p> </p><p>“Not everything is about you. Narcissist.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s okay, we can’t force you to sit,” Carlisle interjects before Edward can bite back.</p><p>Edward settles for an eye roll, returning to the book he was reading.</p><p> </p><p>“How are you miss Hale?” Carlisle asks, turning so he’s facing her.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve been better.”</p><p> </p><p>“I suppose you have. Feel any different?”</p><p> </p><p>“Am I supposed to?” Rosalie shoots back, ignoring the steadily building itch in her throat.</p><p> </p><p>“Ask her about her throat. And the red eyed demon in her water bowl,” Edward says, eyes still glued to his book.</p><p> </p><p>Carlisle sighs, throwing a look at Edward.</p><p> </p><p>“How do <em>you</em> know about those,” Rosalie demands. It takes every muscle in her not to go over and knock the book out of his hands.</p><p> </p><p>“Miss Hale, you really might want to sit down for this.”</p><p>“I want to see my parents. Do they know you’re keeping me here? That you intended to marry me off to your ill-mannered son? Or did you feed them some rubbish story about why I was here?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m afraid you can’t see them anymore.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why?”</p><p> </p><p>“You really need to sit down”, Edwards says.</p><p> </p><p>“Shut up, I’m talking to the doctor.”</p><p> </p><p>Carlisle sighs again.</p><p>“Well, you’ve… changed. To let you go see your parents now would be putting their lives at risk. And besides, they believe you dead, trampled by horses on your way back from a friend’s house.”</p><p> </p><p>Rosalie sits in shock, trying to take it all in. <em>Changed</em>? <em>Dead</em>?</p><p> </p><p>“I have no doubt that you have a lot of questions, I will do my best to answer them - ”</p><p>“What do you mean I’ve <em>changed</em>. What do you mean I’m <em>dead</em>?” The itch in her throat has grown so unbearable as to force her to whisper.</p><p> “That can’t be right. I’m here aren’t I?” she looks directly at Carlisle, holding her hands out, “I’m <em>me</em>, these are <em>my </em>hands, and I saw <em>my </em>face in that water bowl this morning, I’m sure of it.”</p><p> </p><p>She couldn’t believe it, sure her reflection had been a little off, the beauty more striking than usual, and not to mention the deep red eyes, but she’d know herself from her corpse any day.</p><p> </p><p>“You look like you, and you act like you, but you’ve changed. I have to apologise, I should’ve asked you before all this, but the situation was dire. I thought you’d prefer this to actual death.”</p><p>“And what exactly is <em>this</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>“To put it frankly, you’re a vampire.”</p><p> </p><p>Rosalie lets out a bark. Vampire. Sure.</p><p> </p><p>“Like Dracula? What’s next we all turn into bats and fly away together? Please don’t take me for a fool, doctor.”</p><p>“I’m serious. Tell me Miss Hale, have you found that you’re moving faster than normal, and you’re stronger than before?”</p><p>Rosalie thinks back to the peculiar way she’s been moving all morning, like it takes a single step to get anywhere, and the door ripped clean off its hinges in the upstairs bedroom.</p><p> </p><p>She nods, afraid her voice will betray the fear she feels.</p><p> </p><p>“And your throat, it itches, like you’ve gone days without drinking?”</p><p> </p><p>She nods again.</p><p> </p><p>“But I’ve been asleep for a while, maybe it’s just normal dehydration.”</p><p> </p><p>She tries hard not to let the hope come through in her voice, but even as she says this she knows it’s not plausible. If the doctor is right, and it was only last night that she was found, then it wouldn’t be normal dehydration. And as she begins to think, about the stories she’s heard of bloodsuckers who’d snatch girls off the streets, young and beautiful to turn into eternal brides she feels her head begin to spin. If she was human, her body would be bruised and sore, still recovering from the endless pain of last night. She grabs onto the counter, and she feels a piece break off in her hand.</p><p> </p><p>She laughs, a soulless laugh as she observes the piece of stone in her hand, clenching her fist and turning it to dust. She wants to scream. Because she knows about vampires, that they are frozen, cursed to live in the same ageless bodies, while experiencing mundane human life for the rest of eternity – or until some brave soul catches up to them and stakes them in the heart.</p><p> </p><p>“Is that why I can’t see my family? Because I’ll kill them for my dinner?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s especially dangerous when you’ve just been turned, the thirst is a lot to handle,” the doctor explains, hands folded into his lap.</p><p> </p><p>Rosalie notes that he hasn’t moved an inch since they started talking, perfectly still all through this encounter.</p><p> </p><p>“Is that why you guys are in this town, to prey on the people here? Pretend to be offering healing when you’re just looking for a meal,”</p><p> </p><p>“No Miss Hale –“</p><p> </p><p>“Rosalie. Just call me Rosalie, please,”</p><p> </p><p>“No, Rosalie. We really do help. Not all of us drink human blood, instead draining animals for sustenance. It’s less filling, but it’s better than the alternative.”</p><p> </p><p>Rosalie feels her fear subside somewhat, relieved that she doesn’t have to fully commit to the lifestyle of a monster.</p><p> </p><p>“You may have to drink some human blood, just until the initial thirst subsides,” Carlisle continues tentatively, pushing a cup towards her. Rosalie can see the dark liquid inside, and she hopes it’s not what she thinks it is, but the burning in her throat has gotten stronger, only confirming her suspicion.</p><p> </p><p>“You can’t be serious,”</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t worry, it’s all surplus blood donated by patients in hospital. Just enough to keep you sustained, but not so much that you get used to it. After all we are going to be on the road for some time, and we don’t want you harming any humans we come into contact with.”</p><p> </p><p>She sips the drink reluctantly, surprised to find that not only is she not repulsed by the blood, but that she loves the taste, and it does wonders for soothing her throat.</p><p> </p><p>“What do you mean on the road?” she asks, once her throat feels normal again.</p><p> </p><p>“Wow Carlisle, you sure have a knack for dropping bombshells,” Edward chimes in.</p><p> </p><p>“Because of your current situation, we’re going to have to leave, to avoid drawing attention to ourselves,”</p><p> </p><p>“And if I want to stay?”</p><p> </p><p>“I wouldn’t advise that, our kind don’t do well alone. It’s harder to hunt, harder to get by. And besides, if you stay here, who’s to say how long it is before people discover you. And we all know what happens to those who are suspected of demonry and witchcraft.”</p><p> </p><p>Rosalie shudders at the thought, a lifetime of lessons on burnings and stakings coming to mind.</p><p> </p><p>“We know it’s a lot of change at once, but think about it, and you can decide once and for all tomorrow,” the doctor says gently, before exiting the room.</p><p> </p><p>Rosalie sits there, still shocked to the core, but decides that for saving her life, she’ll at least consider going with him. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thanks for reading! I'm still looking for a beta reader so like last time if you're interested just come talk to me over on heartmirroros on tumblr! Thanks again for reading, see y'all next update!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Monday</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>As Rosalie adjusts to her new reality, she vows not to go down without a fight, so she gets to planning.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm a little late with this update BUT I made it... I did it.... constructive criticism is always welcome and if you feel like chatting I'm over at @heartmirrors on tumblr! enjoy!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Rosalie doesn’t sleep on Sunday. She can’t. Her body’s just a shell after all, an empty house. And with nothing that needs rest or recharging, there’s no need to sleep. But she can’t even lie down and close her eyes, because every time she tries, that night plays out in horrible soul-chilling detail. The looks on their faces as they took what they wanted then left her there; their laughter as they walked away, to go crawl into their beds and sleep off a night of heavy drinking, no care or regard for the state they’d left her in. She tries to make the images go away, but they persist, tormenting her as she lies on the floor of her new room, listening to the house shift and creak as the Cullens get on with their business. She feels pathetic; who would have thought that the one and only Rosalie Hale would be reduced to this — a sullen, mournful girl, wallowing in her demise on the floor of a rickety old house. But she didn’t want to get up, help the Cullens move, because moving away meant she’d just accepted this fate, that she was going down without a fight; and she had never been that girl.</p><p> </p><p>She lay there on the floor, as the inky black sky bled into a bright new dawn, as birds began to rise from their slumber, and as the shame in her stomach transformed itself to rage, working its way into every corner of her body until she could no longer ignore it and the thirst in her throat intertwined with a thirst for something else.</p><p> </p><p>Vengeance.  </p><p> </p><p>No. No matter how much Carlisle said she ought to leave with them, surrender her old life to start this new one, she couldn’t leave like <em>this</em>. How could she leave when she’d met such a violent death, and the people responsible were not to be held accountable? How could her life stop, frozen in time, while the monsters who did this to her were free to continue living, breathing, drinking? How could she leave when she knew in her heart that what happened to her at the hands of these men could happen to any other girl unfortunate enough to fall into their trap?</p><p>She had to make sure that each of those men understood the gravity of what they did that night, and that they’d never get the chance to do it to anyone else again.</p><p> </p><p>And so, when Carlisle knocks on her door to tell her that it’s time to leave, her mind is made up.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not leaving,” she speaks plainly, unwavering as she stares the doctor in the eye.</p><p> </p><p>“Miss Hale, it’s important that we do leave. Your life here is done.”</p><p> </p><p>“Rosalie. And I am well aware of that. But while my life is done, the people who put me here are getting up right now, to go to work and pretend nothing ever happened. To send my family flowers with false condolences, while they keep their crime a secret, happy that a horse would trample the evidence of their evil, and while I understand your concerns, I think you’ll understand that I can’t just leave them as they are, because who’s to stop them from doing this again, to a victim who won’t be as ‘fortunate’ as I was?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s not our job to dole out punishment,” Carlisle states, eyes pleading.</p><p>“Well consider this, as the person whose blood was spilt that night, it’s my right to go and spill some of theirs.”</p><p> </p><p>She says this with finality, and when the doctor still doesn’t move she delivers her final statement: “I know that vengeance isn’t in your good doctor dictionary so consider this instead: You can either leave me here to do as I will, knowing that I’ll be joining you on your road-trip once I’m done, or you can leave me here to do as I will, knowing that I won’t be joining you ever again. Your choice.”</p><p> </p><p>She knows she’s got him then, and she almost feels bad for using his heart against him, but she strikes that feeling down the moment it rears its head; she’s the victim, and she’s owed her justice and she wasn’t going to go on her merry way until she’d taken it herself.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” he sighs, “I’ll leave you some money and blood, but please be careful. I didn’t save you from death to hear about you being burned for witchcraft.”</p><p>Rosalie scoffs at the word “saved”. This wasn’t a rescue, this was a life sentence; for what, she wouldn’t have known. Maybe it was for the times she’d looked down on other girls for being simpering idiots, quick to accept even the smallest shred of attention from men; maybe it was for the way she’d treated men that she’d seen as below her; maybe it was for vanity, written in her bones since birth. It didn’t matter what it was for, all that mattered was that she was stuck now, trapped in her body until the end of time, incapable of moving forward, always the same —  and no matter how the good doctor saw it, that was a fate she’d rather not be subjected to.</p><p> </p><p>The doctor leaves, and Rosalie thinks she finally has some peace, when she hears his ill-mannered son step into the doorway. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t care that I made your dad feel bad. Go away,” she says before he can start speaking.</p><p> </p><p>“Actually, I’m here to say well done.”</p><p> </p><p>“Pardon?”</p><p> </p><p>“I mean, Carlisle’s a hard person to convince when it comes to matters of justice. He prefers we leave it to the justice system, but you stood your ground. Nice work, next you can get him to give me an allowance.”</p><p> </p><p>Rosalie almost smiles, but she doesn’t. She’s still mad at him for suggesting she isn’t good enough for him.</p><p> </p><p>“Let it go.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not holding anything,” she says petulantly.</p><p> </p><p>“I can read your mind.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s invasive. This is why you don’t have friends, Edmund.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re just being nasty because now you don’t either. And I know you know nmy name, Rosemary.”</p><p> </p><p>She sticks her tongue out at him, and he laughs.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re so childish,” he taunts</p><p> </p><p>“I’m seventeen,” she shoots back.</p><p> </p><p>“So am I.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah but you’ve been 17 forever. It’s why you’re boring.”</p><p> </p><p>Edward raises his brows in amusement and Rosalie just crosses her arms, willing herself to think stupid thoughts until he leaves her alone.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, I just came to say good luck, and we’ll see you when you’re done. You can stop trying to name every type of car you know now,” he laughs again.</p><p> </p><p>Rosalie thinks a rude thought.</p><p> </p><p>“Touchy,” he says, as he glides out of the doorway.</p><p> </p><p>She resumes her position lying on the floor as she listens to them loading up their luggage, and then listens to the thrum of the engine as the car rolls off to their next destination. She closes her eyes again, listening to the bustle of activity outside. While she thinks her new body is a prison, she won’t deny that she enjoys some of the gifts that come with it. The ability to hear things she’d never be able to hear before is her favourite. The Cullens have chosen a remote house, presumably to better keep their secret but she can hear enough engines around her to know that shops are probably opening, and people commuting to their jobs. As she lays there, Saturday night comes back to her, as it has every time she’s let her eyes droop closed, but this time she lets it. This time she lets it play itself out in front of her, ignoring the shame she feels and instead focusing on memorising the faces of each of her attackers, remembering what she knows about each of them as she plans their demise. She thinks about drinking their blood, chuckling at the irony of the people who left her to this fate becoming the very ones who give her power, but the revulsion she feels quickly puts her off. She doesn’t want that at all, no matter how much her throat burns at the thought. All she wants is for them to suffer at her hands, a slow and steady death like the one they left her to. She wants them to feel the hopelessness and shame that she felt lying in that street, but unfortunately for them there won’t be a good doctor to save them. They’ll go directly into the flaming pits of hell where they belong. The idea brings her peace. Suffering in death to be tortured for the rest of the eternity.</p><p> </p><p>Rosalie lets out a mirthless laugh. She should have been in the final week of preparation for her wedding. This week was supposed to be wine tasting and practice dinners, her final brunch with her girls before she was a married woman. It was supposed to be filled with thoughts of wonder and love, misty-eyed happiness at the life that was to come, not throat searing rage and vengeance. But she begins to wonder then, would this have been a week of happiness? Or would this have been a week of anxiety and worries, as she watched Royce eye other women, shamelessly flirting in front of her, only to offer her empty promises after, assuring he was just being friendly. It doesn’t go without noticing that the thing she’ll miss most about the wedding was the dress she was going to wear, a beautiful white satin gown, fitted at the waist with long sleeves made of lace. She sighs wistfully. She’d tried it on once and immediately fallen in love. If she’d known she was never to wear it again, she never would’ve taken it off. She stops then, an idea coming to her. Who said she’d never wear it again? After all, what better way to surprise Royce than in the gown she looked so good in. She pats herself on the back for this stroke of genius, deciding that she’ll steal the dress tonight, before any other bride has the chance to snatch it up for her. But there’s a lot of time between right now and tonight, so she continues plotting. She plots on the floor of her bedroom, on the floor of the kitchen, on the floor of Edward’s old bedroom, and even climbs into the attic. She writes and rewrites her plan, fine-tuning it to hell and back. She goes exploring and finds that Edward has left her some mens clothes, and a sewing kit, presumably to help disguise her. No one will think twice if she walks around town in men’s clothing. By the time she’s altered the clothes and gone through her plan a hundred times, each time tightening it, making sure there’s no hypothetical loose ends, no room for error, the sun has set.</p><p> </p><p>She waits a little while longer for the sky to turn an inky black, and for the noises from the town to die down as everyone settles in for the night, and then she leaves. She notes that Carlisle has left her a car, but she chooses not to use it, not wanting to draw attention to herself. She chooses instead to run, feeling the wind as it whips at her face; like when she’d stick her head out of the window while her family went on long drives through the country, but unlike then her eyes don’t sting when the wind hits them. All too soon, she finds herself in the town square, she stops dead in her tracks when she looks out to the park. There, in the middle of it, is a framed picture of her, surrounded by flowers and ribbons and teddy bears she would’ve liked. But it’s not the memorial that has her frozen, it’s the sight of her mother, hunched over sobbing as she mourns the daughter she once had. Rosalie wants to walk over there, to throw her arms around her and comfort her, but the risk of hurting her in her thirst outweighs the reward of being able to hold her mother one last time. To feel her fingers through her hair as they worked their magic on her curls. Rosalie wants to cry, and almost screams when she realises she can’t. Can’t hold her mother; can’t grieve for her loss; can’t do <em>anything</em> to make the pain she’s feeling go away. She watches for a little while longer, silently wishing there was something she could do to make this better. If she could only go back in time, and take a different route home, or go home earlier, she’d still be here. She’d be with her mother and brothers and father at home and she wouldn’t have this big gaping hole in her where her soul should’ve been. But she can’t. So she stands up, tearing her eyes away from the sight and willing herself to think about her goal for tonight. She scans the town square for the bridal store, and no sooner than she’s started looking for it does she find it. She steps over to it, and shakes the door handle some, doing her best to shake the door loose from its locks without completely tearing it off its hinges. She succeeds, and does one more double take to make sure no one has seen her before slipping in.   </p><p>She takes a deep whiff of the store, the smell of lavender and roses comforting her. The closest she’s been to home since she was turned, and it feels comforting. She looks around the displays and then she spots it: her dress.  She walks over, and runs a finger over the lace, marvelling in the feel of it. She takes a deep whiff. It still smells like her and only her. Good. God knows she would’ve lost it if she’d been dead for two days and some new bride was already shimmying her way into her dress. She removes it carefully from the mannequin, draping it over her arm before leaving the store and heading for home, praising herself for a job well done. Now that this was over she could go home and relax, maybe read one of those books Edward had his nose in. She’d need the rest, because tomorrow was when the real work began.    </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Tuesday</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Rosalie kicks her plan for vengeance into action.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>OKay so I'm uploading this on wattpad too, and updates will be more frequent (i.e. every week) since July Camp Nano is over and I've also got a handle on my university schedule!! I also have a twitter now @/heartfemmes if anyone wants to follow!! leave a comment or kudos and I will see y'all next update! I also changed the title!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dawn light trickles through the curtains as Rosalie stares at the ceiling. Around her, Rochester comes to life. Birds sing, cars roar; she hears the clinking of chains as people unlock their stores, ready for a day of trading. She throws herself out of bed, ready to put her plan into action. Right about now, she knows that her dad is waking up, getting himself ready for a day of work. Would he be at work today? Or would he be home, mourning the loss of his one and only daughter? The sadness creeps up on her in a way that she didn’t realise it could. She’d taken so much for granted when she was alive, the way the house came alive early in the morning as her dad busied himself getting ready for work, and her mom busied herself keeping her brothers out of the way. She wishes she could cry. She’d never see them again. She’d never get to sit in the chair in front of the vanity and let her mother comb her hair when she wasn’t busy trying to wrangle her brothers. She’d never get to give her father a goodbye kiss on the cheek as he hurried out the door, running late yet again. She would never get to roll her eyes and comment on how if he wanted to be early then he had to get up earlier. All of that had been taken away from her in one night. Seventeen years of memories and kisses and hugs and laughter had been ripped from her hands in <em>one night</em>. She feels the rage again, stronger and more insistent that before. It drives her into action, pushing down the sadness and moving her limbs as she gets through her routine. She splashes some cold water on her face, though she knows it won’t do anything. There’s no evidence of the fact that she didn’t sleep; none of the dark bags that had plagued her in her final days as she worried herself over wedding arrangements. She marches into the kitchen in a rage induced haze, opening the refrigerator to see what Carlisle has left her.</p><p> </p><p>Five more bags of blood.</p><p> </p><p>Perfect.</p><p> </p><p>She opens one, repulsed by the idea, but her throat aches for the taste, remembering how relieving it was when she’d taken a sip that first night after she’d been turned.</p><p>She squeezes the blood into her mouth, gulping down and paying no attention to the thin trail that escapes the bag and trickles down her arm. All too soon the bag is finished, and she licks her fingers in a desperate attempt to salvage as much of the lost blood as possible. She makes a mental note to use a cup, or maybe a bowl next time.</p><p>Rochester grows ever louder around her, and she knows that she needs to get going if she’s going to put her plan into motion. She gets dressed in a pair of brown pants, a long sleeve shirt and vest, braiding her hair and pinning it up underneath a hat. She tilts the hat forward slightly, so that if anyone gets a look at her face, they won’t be able to see into her eyes. The last thing she needs while trying to avenge herself is some innocent bystander getting a look at her and immediately blowing her cover.</p><p> </p><p>She slips out of the front door, doing her best to keep to the shade. The walk into the town centre takes much longer on foot. She tilts her head and offers a half-smile to everyone; some strangers, others, people she knew. She walks past the cemetery, where the teddy bears and flowers still stick out, sending another pang of sadness right into her heart. The itching in her throat is back, and it send a wave of irritation through Rosalie. If she had to be a monster for the rest of her life, could she not satisfy these beastly urges with a single cup of blood? Was it necessary that her throat itched and burned whenever she got even a whiff of human blood? She almost regrets not going with Carlisle, maybe she’d have an easier time ignoring this thirst if all her focus was directed at filling Edward’s head with pointless thoughts. But she doesn’t. she knows that the thirst is a small price to pay for what’s to come.</p><p> </p><p>So she takes a deep breath and steadies herself, as she makes a direct path to the bank, keeping to the shade of trees. She keeps on nodding, smiling, walking, breathing. She steps inside, immediately taking a seat at the little café on the ground floor. It’s just opened, and there’s a line. Busy bankers getting their morning fix. She doesn’t see anyone she recognises, and that’s for the better. She doesn’t know if she’d be able to look at someone from her past life right this moment and not fly into a rage. She pulls out the book Edward was reading and picks up where she left off. She’s not actually interested in the book, the words barely registering as she listens to the sounds around her. All around her she hears hushed whispers, most of them are about her.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s tragic what happened to her,” says one.</p><p> </p><p>“I heard they’re not having a funeral, the body was that badly mutilated,” another chimes in.</p><p> </p><p>“Didn’t stop people piling up those gifts for her,” yet another says, the disdain clear in his voice.</p><p> </p><p>Rosalie can’t help but smile. Even in death, she was adored, and that didn’t sit well with some people.</p><p> </p><p>The gossip eventually dies down as the working day begins, and Rosalie is soon tuned in to the sounds of tellers taking complaints, customers tapping their feet, the sounds of their watches tick tick ticking away. The bell on the door rings incessantly. Customers walking in and out, workers on their breaks, deliveries, workers stretching their legs, people coming to talk to the servers and baristas. Everywhere around her there’s noise. Noise she would never have noticed before, but is now inescapable. She could move, go sit somewhere else, but that would just be swapping one set of noises for another, and there would be no purpose served. So she sits and waits. She waits for the clock to strike twelve, the thunder of feet and scrape of chairs. The locking of the bank doors as everyone takes their lunch. And then she focuses, listening for the voice of one person in particular, and when she hears him, she wishes she could throw up.</p><p> </p><p>Donald Smith.</p><p> </p><p>Before this, he’d been no-one in particular, just another friend of Royce’s. She remembers finding him rather pathetic, always fading into the background while Royce and the others were out there <em>acting</em>; being men. She still thought he was pathetic but for different reasons now. She listened as he offered empty condolences to her father, hemming and hawing about how tragic it was to lose someone so young. Rosalie imagines spitting. It almost gives her the relief she wants. Anger begins to claw its way back into her mind.</p><p>How <em>dare </em>he. How dare he come to work as normal, crying his crocodile tears, wheedling on about how if there was anything he could do, he would do it.</p><p><em>You could have done something</em>, Rosalie thinks, <em>but instead you stood there, and you just watched. Watched while your friends did despicable things. Stood there about as useful as a seamstress in a mechanics’ workshop. </em></p><p>And this is what angers Rosalie most about him. That even though he didn’t do anything to her, he stood by and watched as it happened, didn’t even attempt to help her. She hazards a look up, and fights back the anguish as she sees her father.</p><p>He looks <em>rough, </em>to put it lightly. He hasn’t bothered to shave, and the bags under his eyes are heavy. His face is pulled into a frown, and the creases in his skin age him more than he deserves. He should be at home, in her mother’s arms, holding her brothers. But he’s here, accepting these empty words. She tears her eyes away from him and instead focuses on the man next to him.</p><p> </p><p>Donald Smith.</p><p> </p><p>She turns his name over in her mind as she gets a good look at him. The one thing he has going for him is that he can at least pretend to look upset. He worries his thin blond hair, his eyebrows pulled together in an expression of concern. His eyes dart around, blue bouncing from side to side as he rubs her father’s back. She takes in his posture. He’s tense, shoulders high, rigid. His eyes keep darting around and then, they fall on hers. She doesn’t look away. Her father isn’t paying attention, now caught in another conversation with another colleague. Rosalie doesn’t look away. Let blue look into red. Let him see that he couldn’t coo sweet words into her father’s ear and erase the deeds of that night.</p><p> </p><p>She sees him blink. Once. Twice. Three times. Just to make sure. She doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t smile. She holds his eyes for a beat longer before returning to Edward’s book. She hears him make an excuse for why he has to go, voice unsteady as he hurries back the way he came. She waits until he’s far enough, and until her father is placing an order at the counter, before getting up, and gliding in the direction he left. She focuses again, listening for his footsteps, his heartbeat, anything that might let her know where he is. It doesn’t take long to find him. He’s situated on the lawn in front of the bank, and who would he be with except for Royce and his gang of brutes. They sprawl out on the grass, soaking up the sun, like this is any other day. She sits on a bench under a nearby tree and listens.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m telling you guys. She was there, but different. Her eyes were red. She didn’t move, didn’t blink but it was <em>her</em> just different.”</p><p> </p><p>He’s stumbling over his words, and Rosalie knows he’s doing that thing where he wrings his hands. He used to do it when he was nervous. Which was all the time. When he spoke to girls, when he spoke to her, when he spoke to her father because Royce had sent her to pick him up in his stead.</p><p> </p><p>Pathetic.</p><p> </p><p>She hears Royce laugh, and the rest of the brutes follow.</p><p>“Red eyes? What’s next she walks through walls? I think that religious girl of yours is getting to your head. She’s dead. She’s gone. You probably saw some girl who looked like her and the guilt is eating you alive. Get a grip.”</p><p> </p><p>Royce says all this with the ease of a boy who’s snuck alcohol into a school dance and believes he hasn’t been caught.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Cocky bastard.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>She hears an intake of breath, like Donald wants to speak, but he’s cut off by Royce. “Cut it out man. Get over it. Write it down, anything to get this off your mind, because if you keep acting like the ghost of Rosalie Hale is following you around Rochester, someone’s going to get suspicious.”</p><p> </p><p>His voice comes out in a harsh whisper, forceful, angry. Rosalie wants to move out from the shade, show him that he’s wrong, but she knows she can’t. If she steps out now, she exposes herself and the doctor would have saved her for nothing. She won’t have her vengeance, and she won’t get to see Royce quake with fear as the very monster he created sends him to hell. So she gets up and walks away. She walks back to the Cullen house to bide her time. She’s done enough for now, but she makes a silent promise to Donald.</p><p> </p><p>She’ll see him after work.</p><p>
  <strong> <span class="u">***</span> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>  </strong>
</p><p>Time passes slowly as she lies in her bed, but soon enough, daylight bleeds into dusk, and she can hear the sounds of people shutting up shop, getting ready to return to their families. She readies herself for tonight. It was all good and well thinking about vengeance, but now that she was so close, she had to make sure she didn’t chicken out. She couldn’t let feelings of sympathy absolve this man of his guilt. Sure, he’d done nothing, but he hadn’t helped, and so to her, he was just as guilty as those that had cheered and partaken.</p><p> </p><p>She ambles towards the bank. She’s in no rush. she knows they’ll take their time leaving. Royce always did. And she’s right. She’s waiting with her back turned, and it seems like everyone is leaving but them. She’s almost given up, deciding to take her search elsewhere, when she hears them. Raucous laughter breaks the night as they saunter out of the bank, not a worry in the world. She follows them, maintaining a steady distance as they laugh their way down to the pub.</p><p> </p><p>She scoffs. Of course. No better way to end the day than with a drink. No better way to celebrate another day of being free-wandering degenerates than sitting around a table and doing the only thing you knew how to do well. Rosalie chooses to stay outside; she wasn’t going to risk him seeing her this time. Let him relax. Let him have his drink. It was the least she could do to let him have fun in his final hours.</p><p> </p><p>The night drags on, and customers begin to make their way out of the pub in small groups, the occasional burst of drunken laughter breaking through the night as they made their merry way home. She listened hard, but none of these men were the ones she was waiting for. Just how long could you drink when you had to be working the next day? The last of the customers have left but she can still hear them inside, clinking glasses, laughing over the top of them. Everything else is quiet, save for their loud discussion, of numbers and stocks and the business side of everything. They talk about the horses and gambling and what pretty young thing caught their eye today. It makes her sick. The least Royce could do was pretend to be heartbroken, but here he was, bragging about how he used her death to get sympathy from the pretty young girl at the café.</p><p><em>Poor girl</em>, Rosalie thinks. So young and naïve, giving her time and emotion to a man who deserved neither.</p><p> </p><p>Rosalie’s getting impatient now.</p><p> </p><p><em>Leave</em>, she thinks.</p><p> </p><p>No sooner than she’s thought it does she hear the scraping of stools, the drunken goodbyes to the bartender, the jingle of the bell above the door. She hears their unsteady footsteps and she can already picture them holding onto each other, drunk leaning on drunk as the sway their ways home. She wrinkles her nose in disgust, the smell of alcohol wafting off them in one giant repulsive wave.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t know what she ever saw in Royce. How could she have been attracted to a man like <em>that</em>. She watches as they begin their unsteady path, arms linked together. She’s even more impatient now, she’s so close. They don’t even know she’s following them; they’re so wrapped up in their drunken discussion. This almost feels wrong, the fact that they aren’t even sober enough to know that the end is right at their heels, and there’s nothing they can do about it. They walk, and walk, another member of the group dropping off to make their own way home. Soon it’s just Royce and Donald holding each other up as Royce slurs about how paranoid Donald had been earlier in the day.</p><p> </p><p>“We’re untouchable,” he screams out into the night, followed by his and Donald’s laughter.</p><p>Rosalie just smiles. She’d let him offer Donald those words of comfort, useless as they were. Just a few days ago, she’d thought she was untouchable. She was the most beautiful girl she’d ever seen, getting married to the most eligible man in Rochester. She was going to have her white wedding, have two beautiful children, and live a happy life. Nothing could have touched her dream. But she had been wrong. She wasn’t untouchable. No one was untouchable, and she was going to show Royce the error of his ways.</p><p> </p><p>The two soon split up, Royce stumbling off to his house, while Donald stumbled away to his.</p><p> </p><p>Finally.</p><p> </p><p>Rosalie keeps a steady pace behind him, amused at how unaware he is of her presence. He stops against the wall of a rundown inn, reaching into his breast pocket for a cigarette. He fumbles for the lighter, and it takes a few tries before he can finally get it lit. The night is quiet, only the sound of his heavy drags and exhales filling the air. Rosalie decides it’s now or never. There’s no one around, and he’d had enough comfort. It was time for him to face his punishment.</p><p> </p><p>“You shouldn’t be alone so late at night.”</p><p> </p><p>She catches him mid-drag and he coughs and splutters, a cloud of smoke escaping from his mouth, his nose. His hands shake as he points a pale finger at her.</p><p>“No. I’m hallucinating. My cigarettes are laced.”</p><p>“Afraid not.” She glides over to him, plucking the still lit cigarette from between his fingers. She can feel the fear coursing through him. Fear that makes his blood race. She can hear the beating of his heart, erratic, hard.</p><p> </p><p>Music to her ears.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re dead,” he hazards.</p><p> </p><p>“Correct.”</p><p> </p><p>“So I’m just seeing this. My guilty conscience.”He repeats this over and over, as he tries to make himself believe. Rosalie pities him, she really does. What a pathetic end to meet, consumed by guilt.</p><p> </p><p>She reaches out a hand to his cheek, and he flinches at the coldness.</p><p>“You’re real. You’re real. You’re real and you’re cold and you-”</p><p>“Yes, I’m real,” Rosalie snarls, “did you believe Royce? Did you think you were untouchable, that you could stand by and watch while I was beaten and defiled, and just keep living your life?”</p><p>He’s shaking from head to toe now, scared sober. He drops to his knees, hands clasped in front of him.</p><p>“Please. Please I didn’t do anything, I didn’t touch you. Spare me please.”</p><p>His eyes are glassy, whether that’s from alcohol of holding back tears, Rosalie doesn’t know, nor does she care. Drunk or remorseful, what difference did it make. He’d stood by and watched, and now here he was on his knees, recounting his inaction like it would save him; offering up his friends’ lives in exchange for his own. Here he was before her, as pathetic in death as he had been in life. </p><p>“No. You don’t get to kneel here now that I’m dead and beg for your life. Did I not beg for mine? Did I not plead and cry and bargain?” She works to keep her voice even. “I begged for my life, begged for them to stop touching me, I looked to <em>you </em>for help. I pleaded for just a little help, and what did you do? Nothing. So why must I listen to your begging now? Are you somehow more deserving of mercy than I was?”</p><p>His hands drop to the ground, and he starts sobbing. “Have mercy, Rosalie, please,” he chokes out. He claws at the hem of her pants, and she fights the urge to kick him off. Let him beg. He needed to experience exactly what she felt in those final moments of her life.</p><p>“The Lord will show you the mercy you have shown me, Rosalie please, please, please, please,” he looks up at her desperately.</p><p> </p><p>Rosalie laughs.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“The Lord already showed me mercy, I’m standing right here am I not?” She doesn’t believe this, but he doesn’t need to know that. “The Lord showed me mercy and I don’t need anymore, so say your last prayer and hope it works.”</p><p>He removes his hands from her pants, as he clasps his hands together and begins to pray fervently.</p><p> </p><p>“Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom and the power, and the glory, forever and ever-”</p><p> </p><p>“Amen,” Rosalie finishes, lifting him up and giving his head a quick twist. She hears the snap and drops him to the ground. She considers moving him elsewhere, a small apology for killing a man before he could utter his last “amen” but decides against it. Let him be found on the same streets she was found. She sighs, relieved.</p><p> </p><p>One down. Four to go.    </p>
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